Ode to William S. Burroughs
Ah! I’ve heard this voice before!
This is the voice of subterranean America,
The subway centipede that stretches, both directions,
as far as yonder.
The voice of an old man in Lotus Springs, WI
The voice of Lincoln’s manic depression,
The voice of Bierce, Twain, and Will Rogers
all in chains.
This is the voice cracked hard by the dust bowl,
Cracked harder still in the skull
By some fat, backwater Southern sheriff:
(“Whatcha doin’?” “I’m jes sittin’ here.”)
Let the centipede storm the halls of Congress,
Devouring Democrat, Republican; no party politics here!
Then to burrow in the Grand Canyon
And nest in Lady Liberty’s sweet bottom grass.
This system is manufacturing its own junk, or equivalent.
Storm the reality studio.